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EFFIGIES and MARKERS

Monday, September 5, 2011

I've opened a new website specifically for William and Mary Barrett Dyer (<--- click that text to go there), which carries articles about the Dyers and their culture of the 17th century. You'll find articles about Mary's "monster" child, something fishy about Admiral William Dyer, Mary's stand for freedom of conscience, why they named one of their children "Mahershallalhashbaz," and other unusual subjects surrounding the Dyers.

Most of the articles will come from me, but a number of people have agreed to write guest posts in their areas of knowledge, such as: boating and small-craft travel in Narragansett and Massachusetts Bays; commentary on Isaac Walton's Compleat Angler book published in the Dyers' time; history of religious freedom and the legacy of Roger Williams; soap-making and other handicrafts of the time; etc. Basically, items about the everyday life experienced by William and Mary Dyer and their community.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Thanks to social media and our
mutual friends and interests, I was introduced to the works of artist
Martin Williamson. Martin has
graciously agreed to allow the reproduction of his beautiful paintings in this Rooting
for Ancestors blog. What follows each image I’ve chosen is his
description of the painting, and my commentary as it relates to genealogy
research. At the end of the post, I’ll provide contact links for Martin, and
link you to his online gallery.

*****************

Bolton
Castle, Wensleydale, Yorkshire

Martin:Bolton Castle, Wensleydale.This imposing castle was built between 1378 and
1399 by Richard le Scrope, 1st Baron Scrope of Bolton.
What is quite staggering is the fact that the castle has never been sold and is
still in the ownership of the descendants of the Scrope family. The massive
outer walls of this very well-preserved site dominate the hamlet of Castle
Bolton that lies at its feet. In its dominating position overlooking the
valley, the castle is now a well-established major tourist attraction in the
area.Painted on location.Pen, brush and ink with wax resist.22" x 15"

St. Oswald's Chapel at Castle Bolton

Christy: The Scrope family were Normans who lived in Herefordshire
decades before the Norman invasion in 1066. Richard’s Castle, near Ludlow, was built about
1048-1050, and was their administrative center for the Welsh border area. Four
generations and about 75-80 years later, my branch of Scropes moved to
Yorkshire, to Flotmanby Manor south of Scarborough.
Another three generations lived at Flotmanby and all were buried at Wensley Church. Finally, there is mention of
Bolton, Yorkshire, with Sir William Scrope, 1259-1312.
He is the father of (Lord
Henry) Scrope
of Bolton and (Sir
Geoffrey) Scrope
of Masham (14 miles away), both branches of which are my ancestors
because their descendants married as second cousins twice removed. Henry Scrope, 1271-1336,
married Margaret de Ros
(see Helmsley Castle in this article). Their son Richard Scrope was 1st
Baron Scrope, Treasurer, Keeper of Great Seal, and Lord Chancellor until 1382, under
Richard II. Richard Scrope was the builder of Bolton Castle, and the
grandfather of another Richard
Scrope, who married Margaret
Neville, daughter of Margaret
Stafford and Ralph
Neville, 1st earl of Westmorland. Bolton Castle’s
subsequent history may be found at the link below.

This medieval castle ruin is
located in the market town of Helmsley, North Yorkshire.
Originally it was built in wood around 1120. Now in the care of English Heritage.Painted on the spot.Mixed media.15"
x 11"

Christy: Helmsley
Castle was begun by
Walter d’Espec (“the Woodpecker”), a prominent military and judicial figure in
the reign of Henry I. Walter also founded Kirkham Priory and Rievaulx Abbey. Because
he was childless, upon his death Helmsley passed to his sister Adeline d’Espec and her
husband’s hands, the powerful de Ros (Roos) family, who were barons, the progenitors of
Scottish and English royalty, ancestors of the Neville family, and were
Templars and Crusaders. The castle was improved by the de Ros’s succeeding
generations, and was “slighted” (destroyed) by Parliamentary forces in England’s Civil
War.

Martin:Peveril Castle, Derbyshire.The imposing ruins of Peveril
Castle overlook the village of Castleton
in the Derbyshire Peak District. The keep was built by Henry II in 1176, making the castle one of
the earliest Norman fortresses in England. Now in the care of English
Heritage.Mixed media.15" x 22"

Christy: The earliest-known ancestor of the Peverel name, William Peverel the Elder,
born 1043 in York,
came from a long line of Welsh people on his father’s side, and a Saxon mother.
His patrimony seems to have survived the Norman Conquest, which is quite
unusual for Welsh or Saxon landowners, so one might suppose that he fought on
the Norman side at Hastings and thereafter. His grandson William
Peverel the Younger committed the poisoning murder of Ranulph de Gernon, earl of Chester and had
his lands seized by Henry II; and his granddaughter Margaret Peverel b. 1114, married into the de Ferrers family, earls
of Derby. Margaret's tomb effigy still exists at the gatehouse chapel for Merevale Abbey in
Warwickshire. Margaret Peverel Ferrers’ son William Ferrers, 3rd earl of Derby, rebelled against Henry II and in 1155 lost
his title and claim to the lands of Peverel. Two hundred years later, that
William’s eighth-generation descendant was Mary de Ferrers. Ralph Neville, second
earl of Westmorland (son of Ralph
Neville the first earl and Margaret Stafford, married Mary de Ferrers, granddaughter of Katherine Swynford and John of Gaunt, and
daughter of Joan Beaufort
and Robert de Ferrers.
It’s all quite complicated, but I had to work in the Ralph Neville name to pump
my blog hits—aren’t I shameless!

Middleham Castle in
Wensleydale, North Yorkshire, was built in
1190 and was once the home of Richard III. The extensive site includes a
massive Norman keep surrounded by a curtain wall. The ruins are now in the care
of English Heritage.Painted on location.Pen, brush and ink with wax resist.22" x 15"

Christy:Robert
Fitzralph3rd Lord
of Middleham and Spennithorne, 1110-1185, has a long line of ancestors back to the ninth century and beyond. Genealogy sites list his death as 1185, but
every site also says that Robert Fitzralph built the castle of Middleham
“commencing in 1190”—apparently five
years after his death. (This looks like a job for the History Police,
unless you attribute the work to his wife, Helewisa de Glanville and their young son.)Robert also founded Beauchief Abbey in Sheffield—luckily, though, while he was still alive! His
and his son’s (Ranulf
Fitzrobert) tomb effigies were dug from the rubble of nearby Coverham
Abbey and their photo is contained in the header of this blog. Robert Fitzralph
is the great-great grandfather of Ralph Neville, 1st earl Westmorland (Ralph Neville again?? He gets the most hits
on this site!).

Martin:Clifford's
Tower, York.Clifford's Tower is actually the remains of the
13th century keep of York
Castle, sat on top of a
motte, or defensible mound. The keep is of unusual design, being quatrefoil in
plan (four overlapping circles) and is the only example of this kind in England. Today
it is a well-known and instantly-recognizable tourist attraction, often
photographed in the spring with the motte ablaze with daffodils and the Tower
set against a clear blue sky. I have portrayed the Tower rather differently,
perhaps hinting at its more brutal past: the name 'Clifford's Tower' comes from
Roger de Clifford who was hanged there in 1322.Clifford's Tower is now in the care of English
Heritage.Pen, ink, wax resist and chalk.15" x 22"

Christy: Roger, second Lord Clifford, who was hanged in 1322 by
Hugh Despenser the Younger, was my “uncle,” so all Roger’s ancestors are also
mine. His sister, Idoine de Clifford,
was born c 1300, married Henry
de Percy, 2nd Lord of Alnwick, 1st Earl Northumberland, and died 24 Aug
1365. Clifford’s Tower is the keep for York Castle,
which was a royal fortress established by William I, and rebuilt in stone by Henry III.

This is s very striking ruin
commanding a wonderful position on top of a ridge with stunning panoramic
views. Dolwyddelan stands alone in a country of castles as it was built about
1210 by the Welsh princes, not by English or Norman forces. Painted on the spot
in mixed media.

Christy:Dolwyddelan Castle
was a native Welsh castle located near Conwy. It was built between 1210 and
1240 by Llywelyn the Great ap Iorweth, Prince of
Gwynedd and North Wales. The Welsh castle
functioned as a fortress. On January 18, 1283, it was captured by Edward I of England (“Longshanks”) in
his conquest of Wales.
The castle was then modified and strengthened for occupation by an English
garrison.

Martin:Chirk Castle.Completed in 1310, Chirk Castle
is the last Welsh castle from the reign of Edward I still lived in today. Built
by Roger Mortimer, Justice of North Wales for Edward I, the castle commands a
prime position overlooking the Ceiriog valley. The castle was sold for 5,000
pounds to Sir Thomas Myddelton in 1595. Sir Thomas's descendants continue to
live in part of the castle today, although the National Trust now care for the
property.Mixed media on 230gsm paper.14.5" x 10.5"

Christy: Some reports say that Roger Mortimer (one of many “Roger
Mortimer” fathers, sons, and cousins) built the castle of Chirk
on land he had been granted in 1282. That Roger died during lifetime imprisonment in
the Tower of London in 1326, and his grandson John Mortimer signed over his
rights to Chirk Castle to his cousin Roger Mortimer 2nd earl of
March (brother of my ancestor Isabella Mortimer Fitzalan), in 1359. Another version has it that Roger Mortimer 1st
Earl of March (rebel against Edward II and one of the regents to Edward III before Roger’s execution in
1330) built the castle in 1295 as part of the Edwardian chain of Welsh castles.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Monday, July 2, 2001, Kensington, London Good thing I don't
gamble. I didn't find any tombs or stones. Please! They must have thousands of
graves around there, at York Minster. Where were they moved? Are they covered
by a plaza?Well, let's do it
chronologically. As a group, we hiked through the medieval streets to the Yorvik Viking
Museum. It was probably
close to two miles, some of it uphill. I fell behind, and stopped for a public
restroom, so I was separated from the group, very early on. The museum was a
multi-media presentation, a ride through a real archaeology dig, populated by
animatronic humans and animals. It was dated ca 975 AD. The fossils and finds
were interesting.

I'd heard (well,
overheard) about a York
Castle museum in the gift
shop, so I inquired. It was three blocks more, which I walked, of course.
"It's only a five-minute walk," was the response everywhere I went.
When the castle (Clifford's Tower) came in sight, I totally blew off the museum
idea! I climbed steep concrete stairs up the motte, the keep's bank, paid a £2
admission, and was in the bailey of my ancestors' castle. Eventually, I climbed
the steep and uneven spiral steps up a tower, to get to the top battlements. I
had a stranger take my picture up there on the battlements, with the Minster in
the background. He didn't seem to know English, but he could press the proper
button on the camera! The man was tall and Nordic looking. The castle was built
by Henry III and named Clifford's Tower (I have Cliffords, Marcher lords, back
there, too). By the time I got down all those steps, there was no way I could
walk the 1.5+ miles back to York Minster, where everyone else was, so I called
a taxi from a nearby hotel desk. I got into a group tour
after photographing the carved stone statues of my ancestors from William I to
Edward III. I visited the crypt in hopes of finding tombs, but it was actually
Roman remains and the Norman foundations of the existing gothic cathedral. I
walked the half mile back to the hotel and waiting bus. We drove for five hours
to Central London, with me in the jumpseat
taking pictures, again, and here I am!A tour guide met us and
rode along for 90 minutes while pointing out sites I've read about for years.
The guide reminded me, in a subtle way, of a person I loved very much, for a
long time.

Tuesday, July 3, 2001, KensingtonIt's 90 degrees in this
hotel room, with no fan. The window opens eight inches at the bottom. No
breeze. This sucks. Actually, it was hot all day. This was the day our tour
group split. Some went walking and shopping; others took a city sightseeing
tour. All who were flying back today met at 1 p.m. to shuttle to Heathrow. But
I wouldn't know about that. I was on the sightseeing
double-decker bus. Included was a 50-minute cruise on the Thames.
That was a cool and breezy oasis in the warm day. I had a fish-n-salad
(substituted for chips) at an outdoor restaurant in a small park on the
Embankment, and listened to a live jazz band and watched pigeons. The pigeons know
when diners are finishing up, and start flying in closer, like short, fat
vultures. I shopped for an hour in
the very hot Picadilly Circus area, and at Victoria Station. I got back to the
tour bus and saw another loop or two of London.
I was making my way back to Kensington, where my bags were stowed at the
Hilton, but the traffic out to the West End
was gridlocked. Took two hours to crawl from Baker Street station out to Holland Park. I was the last person on the bus,
and I told them I'd walk the last two blocks, which thrilled them. Would have
been another 30 minutes in the bus! Then I waited a further 90 minutes, 'til
8:30 p.m., to call a taxi, so I wouldn't have to pay to sit in traffic on the
transfer to my hotel reservation in South Kensington.
I was hot and gritty from the bus rides, my feet are sore and swollen. Finally
I got here, to the Kensington Edwardian, and had to schlep my own bags to the
top floor, via the lift. It's now 11 p.m. and still 90 degrees in here. I've
had a cold shower, and begged for a fan, but it's unavailable. I've got a wet
hand towel over my shoulders.

Wednesday, July 4, 2001, KensingtonRight. My patriotic
American-versus-British revolutionary act, this Independence Day, was to get my
hotel room changed. Told the manageress, very politely and quietly, that a 90
degree room and bad mattress left me in agony, that my attempt at makeup had
melted off, that I needed better accommodation and a fan, and that their
two lifts were not working, and I wasn't willing to climb up five floors in an
airless stairwell to boot. They moved me to a first floor (actually mezzanine)
corner room with cross ventilation, and brought a fan. It's still not exactly
cool, but 15 degrees off, plus moving air helps a lot. I was finally on my way
at 10:30.

I have to walk about half
a mile plus a block, to get to the Tube at Gloucester Road Station. So I'm hot
and footsore before I'm started. I got off the airless train at Westminster
Station, and came up right at the Thames
River, with Boudicca's
monument above me. Big Ben was ringing Westminster Chimes (natch) at 11, as I
walked to the Abbey church. Tons of people had the
same idea as I did, and Westminster Abbey was very crowded. I rented the audio
guide and made my way through all the side chapels. Thousands of monuments,
graves, wall plaques, floor stones, etc., honoring the dead. I was touched by
one eighteenth century monument to a young woman. It extolled her Christian
virtues in beautiful prose, and actually made me wish to have known her. Now
that's good writing! Eventually, I got around to the back sides of the
ancestors' graves around the chancel, and close to the Edward the Confessor
shrine. I caught glimpses of the sides of the effigies, but the place tourists
could stand was much lower than even the bottom of the sarcophagi. Also a
strict policy on photos (as in, NONE), but no books or postcard photos have pix
of what I want: overhead shots of the burial effigies of my forebears. The
chancel was roped off, so no access to the sarcophagi that way unless I was an
on-staff Anglican priest.I stopped several times
to rest my excruciatingly painful feet. At 12:30, I took Anglican Communion in
the far west part of the nave. The prayers and parts of the Protestant
"mass" were really beautiful. I visited the undercroft and museum
(cool: I'd read about the undercroft treasury/exchequer in Sharon Kay Penman
books), the bookshop, and the evensong service. Only no song! Just prayers.
They only sing every other Wednesday, and I was there a week too early or a
week too late.I stopped at a restaurant
for tomato basil soup, and bought grapes and a bottle of milk in the Gloucester
Rd Tube station, and walked by the McDonalds and Texas Lone Star Grill, Burger
King and Starbucks. Hotel room is much cooler
than starving-artist garret of last night. Wrote postcards this evening.I keep wondering, Could I
be more tired? And then I answer myself, Yes, I'm more tired and in more pain
than the last time I asked myself that question.

Thursday, July 5, 2001, KensingtonOh, my burning and aching
ankle stubs. Have worn off original, God-given feet issued at birth. It's so
hot and humid, too! OK, enough groaning.Walked through hot, damp
haze to Tube station, rode Picadilly line to Great Russell Square. Then it was at
least three-quarters of a mile to the British Museum.
(Another "five-minute walk.") Must say, however, that anyone I ask
for directions, including Tube personnel, are very helpful and friendly,
despite that Five-Minute Walk they keep telling me. Anyway, at the British Museum, I walked up the front, outside
stairs. Then after buying my special exhibit ticket, up two more flights to the
Cleopatra show. This is six stories so far, if you're keeping track, not even
counting the many flights in the Tube stations. After seeing Cleo-baby, Julius
Caesar, Octavian Augustus, Marc Antony, and lots of naked Egyptians, I had to
leave the blessedly air-conditioned exhibit. Probably the only a/c in the British Isles.I had to go down four
stories to get to the other halls, and then up four stories plus a long gallery
walk, to the Celtic and Roman Britain displays. I was following directions in
the Visitor Guide. It was hot and airless in the display rooms, and no benches
or chairs to sit on, either. A security guard let me have his chair and fan for
about 20 minutes until my soaking wet hair dried off, and my body temperature
came back to normal. Have I mentioned that nothing in Britain is air conditioned? (Oh, I
have. Sorry.) My makeup had of course melted before I got halfway to the Tube,
and my hair was dripping with perspiration. But for all my aches and
pains and fever, it was worth the effort. I saw so many artifacts I'd seen in
history or art books. In fact, every time I saw something amazing and beautiful
in a picture, the photo credit always said, "The British Museum." So
here I was, seeing Lindow (peat bog) Man, Sutton Hoo mask, Rosetta Stone,
Easter Island Head guy, Elgin marbles, Cleopatra, Ramses II, the Ram in the
Thicket, mummified people and cats, Assyrian winged beasts, etc. So impressive.
I had lunch in the nice
restaurant: cran-blueberry sparkling mineral water on ice, and strawberries
with clotted cream. Took Tylenol several times to little effect. After begging
a warden, I was shown the well-hidden and discreet lifts! They'd been holding
out on me.At 5 p.m., I changed into
my gold metallic top and black jacket I'd been carrying in my bag, and walked a
few painful blocks to a bus stop. Caught one to the Strand,
and then tanked up on bottled water and skim milk from a market, then a mocha
frappucino at Starbucks. Man, I was dehydrated after all the heat,
perspiration, walking, stair climbing, etc. Finally, though, I was feeling
better (probably the caffeine and sugar). I walked around the corner to the Lyceum Theatre and picked up my
ticket to the show, Lion King. (Up stairs, down stairs, up stairs once more.) I
shared a box in the baroque theater with a Kentucky university student. When the show
started, an actor in full costume came into our box, and I involuntarily
whispered, "All right!" So he bent down and kissed me on the lips! A
spotlight was shown on him, and he started singing across the theater to his
counterpart in the opposite box. It was over in a minute, and the show started
on the stage. The choreography of the dancers, dancer/puppeteers, and people
who played scenery (trees and grass) was very creative and so beautiful.
Genius, really, to conceive of it. After the three-hour
show, I was told to walk for "five minutes" to Charing Cross Station
for the Tube. Wrong station, but I did snap a photo of Eleanor of Castile's
Eleanor Cross, recreated after Civil War dismantling. (Yes, Eleanor's another ancestor.) After another Five Minute Walk (sure,
sure), I got to the Embankment or Strand Station, whatever. There had been a
rain shower during the show, but now it was cleared off, cooler, and there were
puddles. Took the Tube back toward the hotel, and walked here again. I can't
write this without dozing off again and again.

Friday, July 6, 2001, KensingtonI'm actually writing
Friday's entry on Saturday morning, but DEAL WITH IT. I'll write as if it's
still Friday:By 8:45 a.m., I set out
for the Tube station, took the subway as far as it went, at Ealing Broadway,
then bought a £3.40 round-trip train ticket via Slough
to Windsor/Eton station. Walked up the slight hill to the castle ticket office,
and was there at 10:40. Then I hiked up a steeper hill, around the castle keep,
then down the hill to the castle's lower ward to watch the changing of the
guard at 11. No short cuts in England.
The fife and drum band was good, but there sure was a lot of fuss and
ceremonial slapping of guns and stomping! Took half an hour, too. Guy stuff. If
they were women, they'd do it faster, more efficiently, and there'd be more
music and no stomping. Scoped out the St. George's Chapel, where
some of the English royalty were buried. None of mine, however. One of the
exterior gargoyles or grotesques was a cow. Go figure.

Much of Windsor Castle
was built by successive generations of my ancestors, so I was eager to see it.
We weren't allowed in the oldest part, the round tower, and the private
apartments, of course. Still, it was gratifying to see the Norman Gate, the
stonework of the walls, the hilltop view of Berkshire, and — kind of bizarre —
747s taking off from Heathrow, over the Norman round tower. What would Henry I
or any of them have thought of UFOs in their view of the sky? Demons? Angels? Then I climbed back up
the hill to the entrance to the State Apartments. I climbed lots of shallow
steps. The first couple of large chambers were very crowded with tourists. The
rooms were lined with lit glass cases of 200-300 year-old china. One that I
liked very much was a set of wild flowers, a different flower on each piece. My
20 year-old flower pattern mixture back home seems like such good taste
now!The next rooms, up
another flight, were martial in nature. Lots of spears and armor and swords.
Couple of spare crowns, too, from Thailand
(King Mongkut of Anna and the King presented gold crown looking like
Thai temple to Queen Victoria), and one from Ethiopia.
There were notations that certain items were "taken" at the Battle of
Wherever. (In the name of the British Empire,
I demand that you hand over your ancestral lands, keys to the treasure, your
government, etc., at once.) There were jeweled swords and daggers, covered in
emeralds, rubies, maybe diamonds. Then we continued through
dining and reception rooms, bed chambers and "closets," etc. I
expected to see great art, and I really did. The three faces of Charles I (so a
sculptor in Italy had an almost 3D model), the Holbein paintings of Henry VIII
and Elizabeth I, Rembrandt self-portrait, fresco ceilings, huge tapestries,
sculptured busts, silver furniture, gold-leaf woodwork, etc. The carpets we
walked on were tourist ones, and the lanes were roped. The carpets the Queen
and guests walk on are huge room-size Persian ones. (I think Bernard
Brandstater's carpet, maybe one-eighth the size, but still really large, took seven
years to weave and knot.) Finally, one of the last
state rooms was the Knights of the Garter guard room. I was limping and hurting
badly despite the Tylenol at 11:30 a.m., so I asked a guard if there was a
bench or chair to sit on for a few minutes, "obviously not the
throne," I laughed. He brought a red side chair for me and I massaged my
foot through the sandal. When I did make it to the
throne, in blue velvet over polished dark carved wood, the appliqued embroidery
said "E III R 1350." Hello, grandfather! Edward III, whose 6'8"
steel sword I'd seen in St. George's
Chapel earlier in the day, founded the Knights of the Garter. No pictures were
allowed, but I had my camera around my neck. I put it on wide angle, and from
tummy-level, I aimed in the general direction and snapped a couple
available-light photos when the guards were far away. Well, there was a lot
more walking and hiking. I went to an Internet café for half an hour, hoping
for a cold drink, but the cooler had just been stocked with room-temperature
pop. Forget it! Checked my e-mail, though. Got directions for the inevitable
Five Minute Walk down to the Thames
River for a £4, 35-minute
cruise. That was nice: although we didn't see anything important, it was good
to sit and enjoy the cool river breeze, and watch swans and blue dragonflies. A
piece of fried fish (no chips) and a 15-minute walk of pain brought me
back up the hill to the train station. Two trains and two subways later, I was
back here at the hotel. That half-mile walk hurts more every time! Saturday, July 7,
2001, over
Arctic Circle, maybeI'm miserable. Not as
miserable as the screaming toddler only 8 feet away. Not as comfortable as the
idiot teenager who sits in front of me, reclining his seat into my space. I'm
so sick of being pressed on every side and bumped on the aisle. My knees hurt,
my head hurts. Had an argument with the bloody teen's mother, who said if I
didn't like it I could call the flight attendant. So I did. She asked him to
move up and he did, microscopically. We boarded the plane before 4 p.m., for
4:35 takeoff, but didn't take off 'til nearly 6:45. When my seatmate, a
Danish-born Egyptian, came back from his walk, I got up to let him in and OOPS—
jolted the teen's seat back. You'd never know it by my
mood now, but I actually had a pleasant morning. Woke around 6, and finished
organizing my bags. Then walked to the Tube and took two different subways plus
walked about 2 blocks, to get to St. Paul's
Cathedral, in the City of London.
Got there at 8:07; unfortunately, Communion mass started at 8:00. A deacon
showed me to a seat in a chapel to the rear left of the nave. There were only
about six of us there, but the priest and a robed helper read the prayers from
the missal, leading up to Communion. We took the bread (papery wafers) and a
sip of wine from the chalice, kneeling at the rail. Ow. Then I stayed and
prayed silently in the large nave, under the famous and massive dome, for about
30 minutes. About 9 a.m., they let
the tourists in, and I tailed along on a guided tour. Aside from the gold
ceiling mosaics, the fact that Charles and Diana married there 20 years ago
this month, the beautiful architecture, etc., I guess the thing that was
important to remember was: During the WWII London Blitz, men risked their lives
to save God's house. I'd rationalize, myself, that God lives in my temple, me,
not one made by human hands. But these men saw beyond themselves, to the
greater community and the symbol of hope that St. Paul's was to them. They'd go up the roof
during bombing raids, and if something fell and didn't explode, they'd pick it
up and heave it away. I think just the east chancel was destroyed, and of
course was rebuilt after the war. That was my Saturday morning in London. It was both
inspiring and instructive.After a couple photos on
the plaza outside St. Paul's,
I walked and Tubed and walked again back to my hotel. Checked out. Waited for
the Heathrow transfer van. When the driver got there, he pulled down a seat for
me, and its metal bar fell on my right toes. "OW!" I yelled
involuntarily at the other 14 passengers, then apologized for my outburst. But
my face must have shown the pain, because a British lady said, "You're
putting a brave face on it, dear." If by brave, you mean strained and
white. I walked a lot in the
airport terminal, was not impressed by duty-free prices, and then got on this
excruciatingly crowded Air New Zealand jumbo
jet. Doesn't feel at all jumbo. In fact, they should take out a row of seats at
the back of every section, and install treadmills and exercise bikes, and sign
people up for 5 or 10 minutes each. It is unconscionable that they cram 450
people in here elbow to elbow, with nowhere to walk except to the tiny toilets
and back. We'll be on this plane for 13 hours. They did call for a physician
over the speakers, but I don't know what for. Probably for the nervous
breakdown of a passenger crammed between a sleeping seatmate and a beverage
cart. Oh! That was me! Sorry.I've read countless pages
of the sequel to Bridget Jones's Diary (very funny), and am worried that
I'll run out of book before I run out of plane. I mean, it's been seven hours
already, and we're only over the Labrador Sea.
Not even Canada
yet.Somewhere over Wyoming, 3 a.m. London
time, 7 p.m. LA time.Managed to doze between
screaming baby bouts and sore knee. Foot swollen, not recognizable as human
appendage. If this flight was on time, we'd be flying over the Colorado River right now. My seatmate was leaning on my
shoulder to sleep, and I was hanging into the aisle with a back ache. The crew
are serving hot sandwiches that smell of ham and spinach quiche. I guess they
don't know if it's dinner or breakfast, either. Combined with slight
turbulence, makes me queasy. Finished the book two hours ago. Now what do I do?
It's the same in-flight movie they showed three weeks ago on my way to London.St. George, Utah, 8:39 p.m. LA time — Almost there. So exhausted. Been
awake now, 24 hours. The sun's finally gone down. This day was almost 31 hours.LAX airport
international terminal, arrivals, 11 p.m. — My "friend"Mr. P was supposed
to be here about 9:00 to pick me up. We did get in 90 minutes late, but I'd
built that into the pickup time. I was out at the curb, and no Mr. P. I started
trying to call by 10:25, but no luck, as I don't have the correct number for
him and the phone is in his girlfriend's name, and I'm pretty much brain dead
so can't remember her surname. Finally called collect to Richard Tinker in Yucaipa, and he's coming to rescue me. Probably be here
after midnight.Sunday, July 8,
2001, Redlands, CA10:15 a.m. So good to be
home. Richard and Colleen dropped me and luggage at about 1:40 this morning. I
greeted the cats and was in bed by 2:20. (Had been awake more than 28 hours.)
Cats plastered themselves to me. Major purring.Back and front yards have
huge weeds. The peaches are nearly ripe, and have more tomatoes and squash.
Today I do laundry (first time in 3 weeks), get groceries, and check mail.
Mundane ending for great trip, but I can live with it.Saturday, July 14,
2001, RedlandsWorked every day this
week, and when I'd get home in evening, all I could manage was to feed cats,
have a bowl of soup, and a little bit of pasting photos into album, but had to
sleep by 9 p.m.. That is so not me. Afraid I spaced the pastor's sermon as I could barely stay awake. At Cross Culture
service, we had many technical problems owing to absence of several key team
members. While they worked on solutions, I took a mic and told of my Lindisfarne experience, when God spoke to me. They
"amen-ed" heartily. This afternoon I slept three hours. I think this
is the end of the jet lag, though. My body is back on Pacific Time. Been gluing pix into
scrapbook. At it for a week, but have barely made a dent.

Random observations

Sheep and cattle and horses in Britain are happy, content
critters. Ours must be stressed to stand in muck in feedlots. Here, they graze
and wander and ruminate, and nap actually stretched out in the sun.Music: most shops have music playing.
Really annoying techno-pop, mostly. In Starbucks on the Strand in London, I heard (the first
and only time) British superstar Sting. Found a couple CDs of his in Picadilly
Circus that aren't available in US. Heard jazz in the park on the day I went on
the London City Tour and Thames cruise.Clothes: would pay any money for a
laundromat. Nothing. Michelle and I went through half a bottle of Febreze
fabric deodorant spray! People here dress the same as in the US. No special trend that I can
see. Love to see men in Shetland sweaters!Tans: the Brits are known for their
pasty white complexions. Yet I've got a tan since I came here. Every park you
pass, there are many people sitting on beach towels or blankets, just sitting
and doing nothing. No urge to be productive during lunch or break. Just go
outside and SIT.Food smells: Dublin
and Edinburgh
smelled divine. Until you realize that the smell is malting barley, destined
for whiskey! Oh, man, everywhere I went, the barley smell was there. I
craved a good barley stew, but never found one. I think I also enjoyed the
smells of bar food in Dublin.
If you could get past the vile cigarette smoke, the fast-food or bar pickup
stuff smelled wonderful. But oh, the barley — it's enough to drive one to
drink!The telly: Hey, no problem with saying the
F-word or showing uncut R-rated movies on regular broadcast TV. The prime-time
has soaps, game shows, etc. They have BBC 1 and 2 morning news, and also a Good
Morning news/chat thing. One station was sports-only. And it was Wimbledon time. I watched a two-part detective show that
I suppose will turn up on PBS Mystery, soon. Looked in vain for a "British
comedy," but maybe they're not on in the season or time of evening that I
watched. Hardly any commercials, and never during a show, but they were pretty
funny. The hotels only have five or six channels. It was funny to see 500
year-old stone buildings with 18-inch satellite dishes mounted on the sides.Exercise: I deserve a huge medal (ala those
wrestling belt buckles) for all my walking and stair climbing. When I ask for
directions, the people say, "Oh, that's just a Five Minute Walk."
Maybe for them! But I was fooled every time. What a sucker I am. I trudged
miles, every day. Stairs everywhere, always. No escalators, either. I'm proud that I've done
so much, though. I kept going even when the young and fit 20-somethings were
dragging. When the group was climbing up to Durham Cathedral, although I was
tired, I wasn't out of breath. When I asked to stop for a moment to rest, everyone
else stopped, too — not out of pity for me, but because they were also beat!
With all the exercise, one needs hydration. I haven't seen one drinking
fountain or water dispenser anywhere, but plenty of people haul sports bottles
around. They seem to prefer mineral water to "still" spring water.
However, it finally occurred to me that spring water and mineral water were
synonymous. The drink coolers are set at about 55 degrees, I think, because
stuff is just barely cool, never cold. Never ice!Restaurants: Do these people ever eat at home,
or cook? Every block has many restaurants and pubs and deli-type shops. The
supermarkets aren't really very super. Everyone must shop a little each day and
carry it on the Tube. No station wagons or mini-vans backed up to a Costco
loading dock! Even the lower-priced restaurants use tablecloths and cloth
napkins, and serve the meal in leisurely courses. Wish I could have my
tea/coffee with my meal instead of after. When I ask, they seem
surprised! The servers don't come around very often, and that's a plus. Aside
from "the frozen kind" of fried fish, which was perfect, the other
fish-minus-chips I've bought had skin on, which was gross! So I ate the top
layer, but threw away the skin and attached batter. I also bought sandwiches or
a pasty, and soups, and once just ordered strawberries with clotted cream. I'm
always on the run (almost literally) so I don't want anything to slow me down.
What kind of foods on the menu? (Not saying I ate these, just that they were
available.) Pork (sausage, bacon, ham), seafood (salmon, shrimp, tuna), beef
and lamb practically non-existent because of hoof-and-mouth disease outbreak,
eggs (fried, poached, scrambled), various cheeses, beverages (hot tea and
coffee after meal, wines, hardly ever water and never glasses of milk or iced
tea, cola and other sodas), breads (baking-powder biscuits, croissants, scones,
sliced white and brown and rye bread, pita), breakfast cereals (Special K,
Cornflakes, muesli that looked like lawnmower outflow, oatmeal), vegetables
(potatoes, carrots, zucchini, etc.), fruits (melon, strawberries, blueberries,
kiwi, same as at home), dessert (almond or Bakewell tart, strawberry/ rhubarb
pie, strawberries and unsweetened cream, ice cream, trifle, etc.). The
vegetarian offerings weren't very good. No meat analogs. Either eat strange
vegetable medleys in pasta or buried under crumbs, or go for the cheese/egg
thing. Flowers: The foxglove and lobelia and iris
flags and many other flowers are blooming wild, everywhere. In the cities, I
see buckets and buckets of cello-wrapped arrangements. They'd be $15-20
arrangements in the US.
Lots of people buy flowers, men and women, and carry them with the shopping.
Home, presumably.Ancestral ties: Early on, I sensed that my tour
mates wouldn't share my fascination with the ancient and medieval history of Great Britain,
nor in such a personal way. How many times could I crow, "My ancestor,
King So and So, built this castle or commissioned this cathedral." (But he
did!) Well, it slipped out a few times, but I decided to keep most of it to
myself. There were many, many times when I COULD have said something about the
ancestors! The docents at Windsor/St. George's Chapel, Durham Cathedral, etc.,
though, were pretty excited to talk about (really, really) old times with me.
They were interested that a descendant of the Angevins and Plantagenets would
be living in California.
I suppose I have lots of distant cousins all over the US, and
probably many of the Commonwealth countries, but one doesn't really think of
it. You think of the current Royal Family as being the only real
descendants that count! Dorothy and Robert knew of ancestral ties in Ireland, and
John and Carl are of Welsh descent, so I wasn't the only one feeling the sense
of deep roots.Alone in a crowd: Even though I was part of a
22-person group, somehow I managed to be alone in most places — alone to
meditate, pray in the holy places, appreciate the quiet or the memory of
someone's loved one encapsulated on a tombstone. Maybe this was anti-social,
but while others were figuring out where to go and what to do and how to do it
together, I just took off and got started! While others were getting ready to
explore Bath, I
was on the tour bus, then exploring the abbey church during organ rehearsal,
and then dipping fingers in the hot pool. At Edinburgh
on Saturday afternoon, I did my own exploring, and at Iona,
while the group walked to the abbey, I was hiring a bike. At York I was entirely alone. How slippery of
me. But it's hard to pray, or soak in beauty when you're surrounded by others.
I suppose it could be considered selfish, but I doubt anyone paid their bucks
to be entertained by me, anyway!

Celtic Britain
TRAVEL JOURNAL--part 3 (Scotland, Northumberland, Durham, York) Wednesday, June 28,
2001, late
night, Edinburgh, Scotland!!!We drove out of the Irish
ferryboat and onto Scottish soil, port
of Stranmaer, at around 7
p.m. We drove about three hours, and passed through Ayrshire ("Haste ye
back," said the road signs at the village borders), Strathclyde, Midlothian, and whatever we're in now. Irregular fields
of hay and barley, and the odd potato farm. Cattle, a palomino horse or two,
sheep, a donkey. Views of the sea off to our left, with a sugarloaf mountain
island out there. All beautiful, the whole way. The buildings don't seem as old
as the Irish ones, though. Since it's summer time
and we're far north latitude, the sun goes down really late, after 10 p.m. We
got to Edinburgh
while there was still fairly bright twilight, after 10.Oh, man, you can see the Edinburgh Castle across the street from our hotel
on Princes Street.
The tour mates were squealing with delight at our posh surroundings and
address. Although our hotel faces the Royal Mile and the Walter Scott Memorial, etc.,
our room faces an alley and fire escape stairs!After getting our bags
into the room, six of us went out for a walk, and bought super-cheap paperback
books at a nearby store which closed at midnight. Back at the hotel after
midnight, I did laundry in the bathtub, and hung it on the heated towel bars to
dry. I've fallen asleep multiple times trying to finish this entry.

Thursday, June 29, 2001, EdinburghToday was great all day,
but I had my really special moments before noon.

Cobbled plaza at Edinburgh Castle, Firth of Forth

After the hotel
breakfast, we were taken to Holyrood
Castle, which was
unfortunately closed as of today, to prepare security for the Royal Family's
visit on Sunday night. Holyrood was famous for its later occupants, Mary Queen
of Scots, etc., but was started by David I, my ancestor, to memorialize his
mother, St. Margaret, as the guest house for the nearby Holyrood Abbey, now in
ruins. We drove through the medieval streets, up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle. We bought admission for £7.50,
took a 30-minute guided tour, and then at leisure, we toured the crown jewels
and Stone of Scone ("skoon")
exhibit. My ancestors sat on that stone to be consecrated or crowned king, from
Kenneth MacAlpin in the 800s, to 1299, when my ancestor Edward I of England swiped it and carried it off to Westminster. Then every
monarch since has sat above it. Just a sandstone rock, but it's seen a lot of
royal arse. Oh, sorry, revered ancestral spirits.Then I went to St.
Margaret's Chapel, a barrel-vaulted little stone building, whitewashed inside,
with small stained glass windows of St. Margaret and St. Columba (1800s). There
were fresh flowers in the roped-off chancel. I could almost pray to the
sainted ancestor, as millions have believed is right. As it is, I thanked God
personally, with no mediator, for allowing me to visit this place I've wanted
to see for 20 years. It was a moving experience, and I was able to block out,
for a minute, all the other tourists.Our bus took us away at 1
p.m., after the cannon was fired as a time keeper for the harbor. Walking from
the hotel, I took 13 rolls of film for processing, got a sandwich in a
department store café, took a narrated bus tour of Edinburgh, and shopped or browsed near the
hotel. My feet are soooo bruised from walking the cobbles and the pavements.
Ow, ow, ow. I wanted to shop in the touristy places in the Royal Mile, and see
the mews and closes, but just couldn't. Too painful! Our tour-mate Dolores has
a single room on the seventh floor of the hotel, with a balcony that faces the
whole west front of Royal Mile. Edinburgh
Castle is lit with
floodlights, and there was a break in the clouds so you could see the half moon
shining over the castle. Took a picture of that.

Friday, June 29, 2001, EdinburghWhat a long day. We had
to be ready for the day and on the bus at 6:20 a.m. We drove about four hours
northwest of Edinburgh to the west coast port of Oban. We were the last group to catch
the ocean ferry to Craignure, Mull. Our bus
drove off the ferry there, and we went another hour, the length of the island,
to a passenger ferry at Fionnport, which took us a mile or two across the
strait to Iona. While everyone else walked to
the abbey, I rented a bike and got up there that way. With my knees to my
chest, I chugged up the path. It was my first time on a real bike (not the
stationary kind) in some years. Pretty fun! I parked it on the shoulder outside
the several churches, and prayed at the altars. I stopped first at a
ruined stone church, and saw some ancient unmarked grave stones that might have
been monks, priests, or my MacAlpin ancestors (or not), then rode along the
blacktop path to the newer church down the road. I looked all over the churches
and graveyard for the ancient kings of Scotland said to be buried there.
There were some uncarved or eroded tombs that looked ancient, but no modern
plaque to identify.

The day, which had been
drizzly on the drive and first ferry trip, cleared up miraculously while we
were on Iona. Two hours later, after
unmitigated gorgeosity (breeze, puffy clouds, warm and bright sun) just when it
was time to head back, a few drops from a squall started hitting, but not
really raining. It was exhilarating to ride the bike lickety-split downhill,
into the teeth of the wind! Wheeeee.I stayed out on the ferry
deck again, and watched a castle, a lighthouse, and sailboats pass my view.
Donna and a cute kid (with an even cuter father) were feeding shortbread to a
seagull as he floated in the boat's slipstream.We reversed the ferries
and bus rides, along the same roads to Edinburgh,
and were back by 9:30. I walked to Hard Rock Café and had soup, came back here,
and then Michelle and Jimmie and I went to an Internet shop three blocks away,
to do two hours of e-mail and web surfing. In case you're keeping track, it's
now 2 a.m. Saturday.My impressions now:
Everything is as green, or greener than, the Emerald Isle. On the morning
drive, it was raining in places and misty drizzle in others. As we drove
through Perth
and Crieff, and into the highlands, we saw much heavier runoff than we could
account for by rain. Must have been pouring at the mountain tops! We saw
hundreds, maybe thousands, of considerable brooks and waterfalls. They'd just
appear at the top of the crag, and within a few feet, were strong enough to be
seen for miles. Inevitably, the creeks and waterfalls became burns and flowed
into the lochs. A couple of really large and beautiful ones were Lochearn and
Lochawe. Near the latter, at about the mid-journey point (if you count the long
drive on Mull Island) was the mountain, Ben Cruachan.
My map says 1100 feet (must be meters); the guidebooks say 3600+. Coming from
the mountainous US southwest, I wasn't expecting it to look like much. But I
was impressed! It's all basalt covered in greenery, with shreds of mist for a
crown, and waterfalls for a necklace. Puffs embroidered on its finery were
thousands of sheep and lambs. The first ferry ride, we
barely drove on, and the boat took off. It was a bit rainy at first, but soon
it was just damp and cold. Didn't keep me off the decks! The island of Mull
was 40 minutes off the mainland, and looked similar. This time, we had only a
single lane, and we had to pull over for oncoming cars. The sheep and lambs
walked through downed fences and grazed or ruminated on the shoulder or even on
the road. We saw highland cattle, which look like a devolved, retrograde breed.
They're a pretty red color, with horns, and their hair is all shaggy, with
bangs on their foreheads. Really interesting! Yak-ish. At the end of Mull is a
broken-off island with two volcanic humps, Iona.As the legend goes, St.
Columcille/Columba came to this wild place, maybe on a day like today, with 12
disciples, to found a monastery. When the guys decided this was too
ascetic, treeless and rocky, and suggested going home, the future saint told
them to burn the ships. The conquistador Cortez in 1519 did the same thing, and
I used to think: what a waste of good transport, and how cruel. But the Steven
Curtis Chapman song analogizes it to the Christian experience: we've come too
far to turn back now, our goal is still in front of us, Satan may block our
paths, but we still have a victorious leader, Jesus.

Saturday, June 30, 2001, EdinburghIt was so sweet to sleep
'til almost 9 a.m. The bus took us to the Adventist church in the Royal Mile,
where our group took over the service. I played Brother James' Air for
offertory (it is Scottish!), and O Love that Wilt Not Let Me Go
for a piano solo. To precede the solo, I explained that the tune is called St.
Margaret, and here we were a few blocks from St. Margaret's memorial chapel at Edinburgh Castle. I said I'd play to God's glory,
and to my ancestress' memory. Kit, Robert, Donna, Nancy, Dorothy, and John also
contributed heavily to the service. There was a three year-old girl there who
was so beautiful I could barely keep my eyes off her. She belonged to the
organist, Audrey. After the service, Audrey and granddaughter took me up to the
balcony to let me play the old pipe organ. The keys were stiff and uneven to
the touch, and the pedals seemed spaced slightly different than modern ones.
The "presets" were three sets of levers you pushed with your foot,
which unstopped certain voices. When Audrey played the prelude, though, it was
beautiful, so she's found a way to overcome, maybe even exploit, the handicaps
of the old instrument.The church members served
a delicious lunch in their basement. The soup was pea and mint! I'm not sure if
I would choose that one again, but it was delicious for the once. I sat with
some Scottish ladies for lunch, and we chatted about their grown children and
grandchildren. At 2:30, we were taken back to our hotel, as our Scottish
"sistern" and brethren waved from the front steps of the church.In the afternoon, I
walked all the way to, and on, the Royal Mile. I poked my head in the closes
and listened to a piper. Tried to get into St. Giles' Cathedral, but it was
closed. I had a pint milk carton to discard, but could find no trash, so I
talked to a policeman. "Your city is really beautiful and clean, but I
don't understand how that's possible when there are no rubbish bins for blocks
around!" He smilingly responded that today was the Opening of Parliament, and
the Queen was coming tomorrow night… "Ah! No trash cans for security
reasons," I said, and he nodded.I was at the entrance to
the Castle by about 5:30, but took a taxi back to the hotel because I was
meeting Dorothy to taxi up to the bagpipe concert. However, she'd discovered
there was no seating available, and we'd have to stand for a couple hours, so
she decided to miss the concert. Michelle and James, those young
whippersnappers who had walked as much as I had and seemed just as exhausted,
taxied with me instead. The concert started at
8:00, and we were there at 7 to get a good place. A security guard saw me
leaning on my cane, and brought me his chair from the guard shack! So I got to
sit, which was a blessing. (I'd never have made it back to the hotel later, otherwise.)
We heard the rehearsals behind the castle walls, the pipes and the military
band. Even though a bit muted by the thick stone walls and distance, it was
beautiful. When they emerged from the gate and crossed the bridge, you'd get
goosebumps even if there wasn't an extremely frigid wind off the Firth of
Forth/North Sea. (And there was.) What is it about bagpipes?Instead of taking a taxi
back, I strolled with Robert and Janet back down the mountain with its curving
canyons of old buildings. We stopped for supper in a café. I had
broccoli/asparagus soup. It tasted great, but it was pureed or strained, so no
chunks. Then we continued our long walk back to the hotel.After a long, hot foot
soaking in the tub, bedtime.

Sunday, July 1, 2001, 11:30 a.m., Holy Island, Lindisfarne, EnglandWhat a bucolic spot. I'm
sitting on a grassy bank at the harbor. To my right are two boats, keels up,
with double doors at this end. Either they're boat houses or sheds for
equipment. Three fishermen just walked by, and in their Yorkshire
or Northumbrian accents, said, "It was six feet long." The guys
chuckled, and one said on a gust of wind, "Yeah, right, and 150 pounds for
sure." Fish stories.There's a blond retriever
running around with a big doggie smile, and he met up with two friendly beagles
who bayed happily at him and wagged tails all around. There are sheep in a
pasture behind me. They were grazing quietly, but suddenly started doing the
baa-thing and moving en masse. There are some pretty sea birds who spotted my
lunch bag and are squawking angrily at me. One flies over, and you see an
expectancy of chips or bread crusts in his beady eyes. Sorry. I have crackers,
but I'm not sharing!We drove south from Edinburgh this morning, along the coast route, with the North Sea on our left. What pretty country. Fields with
red poppies, barley, or grazing sheep. Hilltop farmsteads. I was sitting in the
jumpseat, as I've often done on this trip, snapping pictures out the front and
left windows. We stopped at the Scotland/England border to take photos, but by
then it was too late to see if we'd passed over Hadrian's
Wall, because it was behind us. I never saw a sign for it, so
maybe it doesn't reach the North Sea coast.
Saw the sign for Thirsk, James Herriot's headquarters, and expected to see
steep hills and deep valleys like the All
Creatures movie and TV show. However, it was just a gently rolling
landscape.Later: Here in Lindisfarne, I bought a piece of fish (no chips) from a vendor in a
roach coach. This guy could have been a Herriot character if he' been born 70
years ago! I asked where he was from, and he answered mostly monosyllabically, Yorkshire. Had he always lived around here? Yes. Do you
have tartar sauce? No. Brown sauce. (Tasted like barbecue plus ranch.) What
kind of fish is in the filet? (Cod? Perch? Whitefish?) He opened the freezer
and brought out an 8 x 12" box. "This kind," he said, and returned it
to the freezer. So, the UK
version of Gorton's or Mrs. Paul's. (Unless they drop a net and the boxes float
up from the deep.) Oh, well, it was crispy and delicious. Best I've had in
years. I took my paper plate of fish up the road to the little village,
munching all the way.

Found the museum to look
at the Lindisfarne Gospels on a computer (because the real thing is in the
British Library in London),
but decided to buy the CD rather than take time to look at it on their
computer. Walked on to the priory, and paid admission to the museum and ruins.
The apse was a semi-circle in which St. Cuthbert was probably buried at one time.
I sat for awhile in the chancel, built in a semi-circle, on a block of stone,
enjoying the perfect day: not too hot or cold, fluffy cumulus clouds in a pure
blue sky, birds fluttering between the arches of the crossing, and the sun
spotlighting me from a gothic stone arch. A golden moment. I was sitting at the
place where the high altar had been for 700 years, and bare stone had been for
another 600 years since. Then I heard God speak to my heart: "Present
yourself as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God — this is your
spiritual act of worship." This moment was very powerful for me, there in
that quiet and holy place. God spoke. I was a living sacrifice on the stone
altar of a holy place.The puffy clouds scudded
by peacefully, but it was nearly time to go. Back through the museum and gift
shop, I found Lisa looking for gifts for Dorothy and John, in appreciation from
the group. She'd picked out an assortment, and asked my opinion for the final
decision. I thought John would like the Chi-Ro illumination because of the
Greek letters that begin Christ's name. Dorothy had told me months before that
her house, like mine, is all in blue and white, so I thought the blue
Celtic-design plate would be a nice choice for her. Apparently, Dorothy and
John had already been in this shop, and had salivated after the very things
that we decided upon, but we didn't know that until later!When the bus got underway
at 2:30 p.m., the causeway was still wet, and the tidal flats still held a lot
of water. We just got to the island in the nick of time this morning, and then
we had three and a half hours to relax before we could leave. Time and tides
wait for no one. How profound. Wish I'd made that up. I'd have been as famous
as the guy who really did make it up. Born too late, I was. Oh, yeah, and in a
land-locked desert city. So I doubt I would have thought of it anyway.

Durham and Yorkshire — About an hour or more down the
road, we hit Durham.
The coach wasn't allowed in the medieval, twisty streets, and had to park at
the bottom of the very considerable hill. We started walking: up a hill, up
stairs, up a small street, across a square, up a curvy street, up and up, and
finally, there was the gigantic cathedral. Just massive. We got a tour from a
soft-spoken woman who showed us the tomb of St. Cuthbert, the nine chapels or
altars, took us into the chancel, and explained about the Caen limestone in the Neville Screen. HUH????
Neville, you say? I knew
the Lords Raby (Nevilles) were buried at important sites around Northumberland
and Yorkshire, and I remember there were
several Ralph Nevilles, Lord Raby. I told our docent/steward that I was
descended from Nevilles and Percys and Ros, etc., and she got very interested
that this American chick knew the ancient names and places. She's a
medievalist, and lived in Alnwick
Castle one summer, she
said. That's a Percy place, and some are buried near there. (We'd passed the
turnoff in our bus, and I only got a picture of the Alnwick sign.) The docent
said that there were two Neville tombs in the cathedral, and then showed them
to me while the rest of the group went with the guide. Photography is
prohibited, and there were no postcards or guidebooks with pictures of the
tombs. I asked if I could make a donation as I did at St. David's in Wales,
but apparently, that too is out of the question. The docent whispered that she
could just disappear and I could snap the picture, and if the verger came
around, she could appear to scold me. So I got my shot and no one noticed
anyway. Yea! I did buy postcards of the chancel and the Neville Screen, though.
We then hiked back
downhill, over cobbled streets. Those things kill my feet. I can see how
they'd be good traction in rain or snow, though. Janet and Robert had bought
McDonald's ice cream sundaes for the whole busload. Really hit the spot. How
did they haul 23 cups of ice cream all the way to the bus?

11 p.m., York, Yorkshire,
England — Wow. Ancient city walls. York Minster. Funny
streets like Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate. Cobbles, bricks, stone buildings and
sidewalks. Our hotel room looks right out at the north city wall. We had the
group dinner tonight, and presented the gifts to Dorothy and John, who were
thrilled with the choices. The hotel restaurant served this great soup, and I
asked if I could just have another serving of soup instead of the entrée. They
looked at me strangely, but said okay. Crazy American, only eating the
potato/leek soup. Even though sore and
tired from all the walking already today, I convinced Michelle and James to go
walking into the old city, only a block away through the Monkbar Gate. We saw
the east face of the Minster, the largest medieval building in the UK,
then we walked down a few streets looking for a convenience market. Nothing but
pubs after 10 p.m. on a Sunday night. Finally found a roach coach with bottled
spring water. Then we turned to come back, and we'd gone really far! Maybe a
mile each way. And we were tired to begin with. Now I ache. Probably will
tomorrow, too. I just BET I'll find more graves or mentions. My families ruled York for hundreds of
years. All the blue blood in my
veins is throbbing in my feet and knees and hips. Must soak and medicate! Read on to Celtic Britain part 4.

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About Me

Christy is an author and editor whose biographical novels and nonfiction book on William and Mary Dyer were published in 2013 and 2014. Her hardcover book "We Shall Be Changed" (2010 Review & Herald) is also available. In September 2015 she published "Effigy Hunter," a nonfiction history and travel guide, and will follow that with a nonfiction book on Anne Hutchinson, then a historical novel set in England in the 1640s-1660s.